


The Heat of the Stones

by matrixrefugee



Category: Gormenghast Trilogy - Mervyn Peake
Genre: M/M, Rivalry, character sketch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-22
Updated: 2010-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-11 05:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matrixrefugee/pseuds/matrixrefugee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Titus isn't aware of how close he's being watched, and by whom...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heat of the Stones

**Author's Note:**

> NOTEs: At long last, I have banged out my first-ever "Gormenghast" fanfic, and likely the first of not a few... I wrote this in response to a prompt on comment_fic and I hope it satisfies the OP, as it isn't as slashy as some might have done. Mostly because I've never really seen SP -- notwithstanding his BBC mini-series incarnation's good looks which render him Slash Bait -- as very slashable, given his Freudian Excuse. Titus on the other hand... I get the feeling he's so starved for love that on some level, he'd take any love or affection or ...pleasureable friction of any kind that's offered him from *anyone*, even another male. But I'm pleased with the results, and I hope you enjoy it, too. I also deliberately wrote it to fit either the books or the mini-series, so it should fit in it, whether your mental image of Steerpike is the Evil Albino version or the Jonathan Rhys-Meyers incarnation.

Gripping the sandy ledge of the windowsill, Titus leaned his head far out over it, gazing down, dizzied, at the cobbled courtyard below, which seemed to fling themselves up at his face, as if they would pelt him for considering the action he was about to undertake. Pausing, he drew back and glanced to left and right, listening, as if he feared for any eaves-droppers witnessing him.  
He leaned out again over the dizzying stones, the pattern in their set shimmering in his eyes, and working his jaws like a dog chewing a sop, he pursed his lips and spat on the stones, the mouthful of warm spittle making a satisfying "splat!" and hissing on the sun-baked pavers.  
He had defiled it, defiled all that he was a living symbol of, and spat on the Stones that were his heritage, the birthright he bore too heavily on his thin shoulders for the past sixteen years. As childish as the gesture was, his heart leapt with triumph in his breast.  
But his defiant exultation did not last for long. A hand came down, clamping itself on his lean young shoulder, and someone turned him around from behind, pressing his back against the warm stones of the window sill, fairly holding him over the vertiginous drop to the courtyard. He looked up into the thin, pale face of the Under-Secretary, the man who helped to order every second of his life, and whom his own sister defended at every turn.  
"And just what might you be doing, your Lordship?" he asked, with that irritating air of obsequy that always made it seem he was talking down to the young Earl.  
"I saw one of the new maids passing below, a beautiful young girl I had not seen before, at least in the daylight," Titus replied, quickly fabricating a youthful fancy. "The sunlight was glowing on the linen of her head-covering."  
A smirk showed in the corners of the Under-Secretary's mouth. "You create such pretty fictions, your Lordship. I've been watching you from the angle of the corridor for the past five minutes. So unless you're not really fond of the girl and that's why you cast your spittle out the window, it looked as though you were insulting the Stones by spitting on them." He leaned his free hand on the frame of the window, boxing Titus in and blocking any attempts at retreat. "And when you insult the Stones, you insult me, and when you insult me, you insult yourself, for you represent the traditions which I help to direct and which bind the Stones together as much as the mortar between them."  
Titus felt the warmth of the other man against him, though their bodies were a handsbreadth or more apart. He could feel a similar warmth rise in his own flesh in response to that warmth, and he quickly slid from Steerpike's grasp, ducking under his arm. Titus sputtered some phony promise never to repeat this childish gesture of defiance again. Once he had the words out, he excused himself and hurried away to seek refuge in his rooms, but he knew not if he did this to conceal himself and his embarrassment, or if did this to distance himself from the man who hid a mocking contempt behind a dutiful mask, and who inspired an unwholesome reaction from his rebellious flesh.


End file.
